Monday, June 11, 2007


Okay seriously folks…if you can, get yourself to a beach, a sandbox, a bathtub full of sand from the Home Depot — however you do it, just do it. Now then, wet the sand until it is the consistency of the sand closest to the shore of a beach. Although not necessary, it might help to add some salt. Done? Good. Now put on a bathing suit and jump in.

For some ridiculous reason that I’ll go ahead and chalk up to laziness, mysophobia, a dash of cold weather, and sheer adult stupidity, I have yet to really dig into the beach sand with the kids. Today, scantily clad in a bathing suit and armed with a shovel, I got down and dirty and it was glorious. There really is nothing more soothing than creating little molded towers out of sand, especially when you need to smooth over the edges with your hands. And can we just talk about how luxurious it feels to sink your feet into a 6″ deep hole in the sand, deep enough for the lake water to be coming up from the bottom of the hole — all the evidence I once required to believe that I could dig my way to a country on the other side of the world. 

When did I stop digging in the sand? Was this a vicious product of my teenage angst? Perhaps and occurrence in direct correlation with the little hairs that keep springing up out of my chin at the exact moment when I am nowhere near a pair of tweezers? It’s another one of those cruel ironies that come with adulthood, isn’t it? Sure, we get to go to bars and such and fly all by ourselves and stay up as late as we want, but we have to pay taxes and we suddenly stop playing in sand. Well, I for one am officially bucking this trend. Tomorrow, I might even roll around in the sand a bit and make sure it enters every single crevice of my body so that I have to take both a shower AND a bath in order to get it off and yet it still somehow ends up in my bed — just like my 3 kids.

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